So this weekend Addie and I broke out the play-dough. She got the Ice Cream shop playset for Christmas and wanted to play with it, which is a bit of a nightmare. It seems perfectly engineered to ensure that little bits of play-dough will stick to the inner workings in ways that are near impossible to retrieve and clean out.

As any child would, Addie likes to change colors often. So there is about 5 minutes of down time while I pick out the remnants of the previous color with tooth pick and butter knife before she gets to continue on with her ice cream making.

This weekend I was in the kitchen cleaning out the fridge while she sat happily at the table playing with this horrid contraption. She informed me that she was ready to change colors. Which of course is my cue. So as I armed myself with butter knife, toothpick and straightened paperclip she commented on why this process was necessary. "Because we don't want to mix the colors, right Daddy?"

And then suddenly it hit me... why the hell not? When did I become so anal retentive that the though of mixing play-dough colors became such a horrid idea? That thought and the fact that Addison had taken this with the blind faith that only a child can have nearly stopped me in my tracks.

How had I become a color inside the lines, pristine play-dough color separation, never wear your underwear on your head kind of dad?

So I am happy to report that we have now created a new flavor of ice cream that is equal parts chocolate chip mint, strawberry, and vanilla. Although I am hesitant to pitch it to Ben and Jerry's I am certainly happy to have let go of such a pointless restriction.

Any of you dads had one of these moments when you suddenly thought "What have I done!?"

Dude... I have those moments EVERY single day. I AM that Dad... I want the blocks stacked aligned, the markers in rainbow order, and damn straight I want the PlayDoh colors separate!

And with that being said... My Dad used to say to me, "Want in one hand, and Chit in the other... see which one fills up first."

I've learned to let the 3 year old be 3. (And now the 4 year old be 4, etc.) I have no doubt I've passed on my neurotic DNA, but I AM trying not to create any manifestations myself. Let HIM decide what's gonna make him crazy. I call it "ScorpioticNeurosis." I do joke about it, but it IS real. Some people require medication, but I've learned to just deal with it. (Not judging those who medicate, just glad I'm able to avoid it, at least so far.)

My wife was genuinely surprised when she found us playing with PlayDoh and there was this mash of color (now lovingly referred to as "preschool gray")... "Wait, you LET him mix the colors!? Whoa! Good for you Daddy!" It was so much more fun ignoring that particular tick of mine, because his smile never waivered (like it would if I said, "let's not mix the colors").

Don't FIGHT the neurosis. Just pick which ones are important... and as you've discovered, PlayDoh segregation, isn't. At all. Though still gotta have the toothpick, butter knife and paperclip when you're cleaning up, no doubt. I'll mix colors, but I am NOT leavin' the crusties! That's just crazy talk!

This post tickles me because I do make fun of my friends who don't let their kids mix play-doh colours. I can totally understand where they're coming from (because I was the same the first 2 or 3 times my son played with it) - but it's PLAY-DOH! I always rationalise it by saying they're learning by experimenting in colour mixing Plus, if you make your own at home, which is not very hard, it's cheap as chips. Now if I can just relax about making sure his clothes 'match' *sigh* And I'm in no way 'fashion' conscious! (Is that a Mum thing, about the clothes?)

My wife is the...meticulous one. I'm a little too laissez faire; I give the kiddo a laaaaht of slack.

Most mornings she likes to pick shirts from my closet for me to wear, so I wear whatever she picks. So far, so good: I have a very limited wardrobe. But she did hand me gym shorts and these wierd New Balance clog tennis shoe things I wear in the summer, so it was a little cold today. Good thing Granpa gave us a new gas fireplace insert this winter.

She knows the sign for hat, and while I'm not sure if she really likes my ball caps, or hates my hair cut, or just likes to see herself talk, when she signs "hat" and points at one, I grab it and act as if I'm going to put it on her head and she shakes her head no, so I know she wants me to wear it, so i do.

From the time she was able to stand I let her get into the bottom drawers in the kitchen because I encourage exploration (and it bought me time to make breakfast uninterrupted). By the 5th or 6th time in one day, it did get a little tiresome.

But then I think I recognized her mother's orderlyness gene in her, though, because now, at 15 months, after she spreads out the tupperware, bibs, and dishrags from the bottom drawers onto the floor, I can lye down on the kitchen floor and hand these items back to her one by one and point to which drawer they should go back into and she will put them there.

At 15 months, though, I still have a lot of time for her to show me which of my future rules are silly.

Hilarious thread, dude. And so on the mark. I think most dads (the good ones anyway) have these moments where we step back and have a laugh at ourselves. Hugely important and a good sign.

I've had plenty of "Am I Really THAT Dad" moments (my kids are older now, so we're past my play dough concerns) -- some on the sidelines of kids sports events when I'm getting too involved. When I feel like my kid has been treated unfairly and think about intervening. When I wig out about a spill in the car.

The fun part comes when the kids get old enough to call you on that sh*t. And everyone gets to have a laugh at your expense.

My wife's an engineer in every sense of the word. Playdough probably shouldn't even leave it's package in this house. I, on the other hand, have been put in an extreme opposite place in having to let the boys roll however they want. This leaves us with some areas that are perennial messes, at least until the boys get the whole concept of cleaning up and consequences.

One thing that I've noticed about my wife lately is that before she'll address a need in the kitchen (like a preschooler demanding breakfast cereal at 7:30am, not to be specific) she needs to unload and load the dishwasher which only enrages her to the point that she forgets about having given birth to kids and that said kids are waiting for their cereal, even 45 minutes later. It's not really a blessing... Just a curse.